Not Your Fault but Mine
by Makebox
Summary: Dean has long known the cruelty that this world has to offer and has been at the receiving end of it many a time. What happens when his Master finally takes it too far and hurts someone who has a status higher than that of a piece of furniture and the FBI gets involved? Will a young profiler be able to help the boy no one else notices? Contains slavery and abuse.
1. Prologue

I ran along the path that lead through the forest of lush green maples. The sun peeking through the leaves every few seconds, warming the back of my neck. Up ahead I could see the bright blue of my brother's sneakers as he jogged the final few meters up to our front door. All the while laughing with the delight that so fits such a young happy boy.

"Dean, whoever gets to the fridge first gets to have the last of the ice cream." He giggles at me, glancing momentarily back at me to make sure that I got the message.

"I think we both know who that will be." I joke as I pick up speed to convince him that I am not just going to hand over the ice cream to him. Although I think that we both know that I would give him everything under the sun just to see that carefree smile remain on his face.

Sammy stubbles up the front steps and almost collides with the door in his haste to reach the fridge first, myself bringing up the rear mere steps behind.

Next thing I know I am sprawled on the floor, having run straight into Sam's back and having knocked him to his knees as well with the force of the blow.

Standing in the middle of our kitchen are two men, in black suits. The men glance down at both us on the floor before turning their gaze to me. The seemingly older of the two is the first to talk.

"Dean and Samuel Winchester?" He asks in a deep voice.

Slowly I nod my head, as a thousand thoughts run through it as I consider who these men could be and what they could possibly want.

"You are both to come with us, and I want no protests from either of you. Understand?"

I look at Sam who is looking as he is about to cry, but do not have time to respond because the men grab both Sam and I by our upper arms and start to drag us out the door to their separate cars.

"De, help me, De!" Is the last thing I hear from Sam as he is pushed harshly into one car and I the other.

"Boy! You have 30 seconds to get your pathetic ass out here and fix my breakfast." A voice yells and beings me back to reality from my horror filed dream.

Just a dream, Dean, it was just a dream I try to tell myself. Only I know that this is not true. That was the last time that I saw Sammy. The day my parents died in that car crash. The day that we were sold into slavery. The day that my life became a living hell.


	2. Chapter

Two Months Later

Skin looks raw and is mottled red in colour? Check. Skin is moist and ranges in colour from white to cherry red? Check. Blisters that contain clear fluid? Check. Extreme pain? Check.

Congratulations Dean, you are the proud victim of a second-degree burn. I almost chuckled to myself at the thought, almost. I likely would have if it were not for the urgency of which I had to deal with the situation at hand.

As it is, my current state found me kneeling on the bathroom floor with my left arm shoved under the cold flowing water of the bath tub with the St. John Ambulance first aid book open beside me. Never before had I been so happy about Master's slight hoarding problem.

What was I even talking about? It is my own fault that I am in this current situation. This all could have been prevented, if only I had remembered to pick up the cigarettes at the store as I was told. But no, I had let it slip my mind and now I had three circular burns on my forearm to remind me to not fuck up again. The burns came from Master's one remaining cig, one burn for each package I had been told to pick up. Each held onto my sensitive forearm for what had felt like an eternity as I had cried and begged to be released, in reality the whole ordeal was over and done with in under two minutes.

After my punishment Master had left the house in a rage to do what I had not, but not before telling me to clean myself up by the time he got home, or I would get burns for each individual cigarette I had neglected to purchase. It was times like this that I reminded myself how likely I was to be with Master, and how much worse things could really be. I could be on the streets fending for myself or with a Master who abused for no reason. At least here I had a roof over my head and an owner who only punished me when I deserved it (which was often). Still I cried and begged for mercy when the blows came, and snuck food when he was out, that is how I repaid the man who had taken me in out of the goodness of his heart. I truly was as greedy and spoiled as he told me I was.

I would just have to try harder, be more obedient and grateful for my lot. It was the only thing that I could do, and I could not change what damage had already been done.

Quickly I finished rinsing off the wound and wrapped it in the pillow case from my bed. I knew better than to ask for a sterile dressing that I did not deserve.

Silently I wiped up any water on the floor and returned the first aid book to its original home, than tiptoed down the stairs to my room in the basement. Master had not returned from the store yet but better safe than sorry. Besides, I had finished all of my other chores and as such Master should not have to deal with seeing my miserable excuse for a being when he did return.

Once in front of the door to my room I slid the bolt lock open and stepped inside. The lock could only be opened from the outside and was for use at the discretion of Master, I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he chose to use it tonight, after all I deserved what I had gotten and so much more.

The room that I called my own actually doubled as the utility room, after all, slaves did not have possessions such as their own spaces. The room was small, about 10 feet by 10 feet and windowless. A single bare bulb hang in the middle of the room providing some much need light and the cement floor was cold, ruff and even slightly damp beneath my bare feet.

The wall that contained the door was mostly taken up by a stacking washer and tumble dryer and a makeshift clothes line hung across the width of the room. The two side walls contained shelving for household cleaners and other products, and Master had even gifted me the use of the lowest shelf on the left set of storage units for my few meager pieces of clothing.

Finally, against the wall farthest from the door set my bed. Or at least what I called my bed, it was comprised of two thin blankets that had certainly seen better days, one wool and one cotton. I had even been allowed the use of a foam pillow! A luxury almost unheard of for a slave, the pillow case from which was now wrapped firmly around my throbbing arm. Commonly I used the cotton to cover the ground on which I slept and would wrap my body in the wool one to the best of my ability.

Wearily I lower myself to the ground and laid there until sleep finally took me an hour later. One final thought in my mind as I drifted off, how had I managed to end up with such a kind Master?


End file.
